Don't Leave Me
by a perfectly healthy clown
Summary: He drops a knife and cuts his palm. Into the bathroom you take him, picking through a medicine cabinet you are unfamiliar with until you find bandages and antibacterial cream. You clean him up. His palm has Hello Kitty on it. He won't stop staring at you.
He's holding a gun to someone's head the first time you meet him. "Smells like shit in here," you say, because you're in the bathroom and need to take a piss.

"Yeah, you're telling me," he says, and pokes the muzzle of the gun to the temple of the squirming guy. They're trapped between the toilet and the bathtub. "He didn't wear his brown pants."

You chuckle, and he does, too, and you piss in the sink and leave the room.

* * *

You run into him a second time that night. He doesn't have a gun with him, at least not out.

"Still packing?" you ask, wiggling past him on the way down the hallway.

"Six cups of pudding right in my coat pocket," he says, and you chuckle, and he does, too, and you continue down the hallway. He follows you, though, bumping along the walls and the other patrons of the party. You don't know why he's following you, or if he's even following you. The hallway is narrow, only goes one way, so it isn't strange. It isn't strange, but it is strange. You turn into an empty bedroom, and he follows you, and he follows you until you're hanging out the window, and he's sliding next to you and jumping onto a fire escape and disappearing from view.

You close the window.

* * *

He's outside when you make it outside. "Third time's the charm!" he says, all smiles and sweat on his brow. He looks as if he has finished a marathon, out of breath and shiny. Blood is on his hands, sticky, glistening. Most marathon runners don't end up with blood on their hands.

"What?" you say, but he's going back inside, sprinting, smiling.

Everybody is piling out on the front lawn, too inebriated to care, too hot to function. It's early fall. The wind doesn't blow, hasn't blown for days. Sweat is on their brows, but they don't have blood on their hands. You stand there and wait for him to return. He doesn't return. You hear a gunshot, maybe, and he doesn't return.

So, you leave.

* * *

The next weekend, you're back, and he's back, too. You meet him in the bathroom again, but he doesn't have his gun pointed at anybody's head this time. This time, he's taking a piss. When he sees you, he laughs, and you laugh, too, and you take your piss in the sink while he finishes with the toilet.

"That was a very special moment," he says. "Do I have to wash my hands with your business?"

"Do you want to?"

He considers this for a second, scratching his chin. Then, he says, "No."

"Yeah," you say, and nod. He laughs again—a high-pitched giggle that makes your heart drop to your stomach—and leaves, without washing his hands. You debate on calling for him to come back, then someone walks in and asks to use the toilet, and you have to leave without washing your hands, too.

* * *

You don't see him the following weekend.

* * *

He's in the grocery store now. He's juggling three boxes of hot pockets and a gallon of milk. Perplexed, with a bag of potato chips in your arms, you stare at him. Curious, too, his eyebrows knitting together, he stares at you. The expression is cute. His cheeks are pink, and his right eyebrow has a slit through it. Is it on purpose? A scar from childhood? He hasn't shaved his face in days.

"Hello!" A cheerful tone, eyes bright, his expression is still so damn cute. "Fancy meeting you here." A hot pocket slips, he catches it, and another box falls. "Well, shit," he sighs, and bends over to grab it. It's hard—watching him struggle, trying not to laugh. He's grunting a bit, too, so that makes this all the more hilarious. Eventually, you give in and help.

As a single unit, he and you make it to a self check-out, you with your bag of chips and his milk and him with the hot pockets. Because you're helping him, he goes back and pulls out two more boxes of the stuff. "I got coupons," he tells you, like it's a secret.

"Enjoy, then," you say, when he's checked out and balancing the plastic bags on his forearms.

"Oh, I will!"

And he leaves. You pay for your chips and leave.

* * *

It's tomorrow. It's raining. Storm clouds roll overhead, thunder cracks—deafening. The stereo is louder, booming. People shout to each other, at the top of their lungs, to get attention, to give attention. Their heads are full of aches. It dulls with drink after drink.

You are sober. You float. You meet him again. He has a gun out again, but it isn't made of steel. His gun is handled by a man you don't recognize, but that doesn't matter. You turn on your heel and leave.

* * *

Later that night, later that early morning, you play darts with him. The man from before is nowhere. It doesn't matter.

The dartboard is made of photographs of enemies. You nail a woman between her breasts. He hits a man in the kneecap. "Wade," he says, sticking out his tongue and closing an eye. "Wade Wilson." This time, his dart flies into a forehead. "Bullseye." He thrusts his pelvis and punches the air.

You decide you like Wade Wilson very much.

* * *

Sun filters through the blinds on the left. Early light is annoying, digging at eyelids and forcing pillows to faces. The pillows on the couch are gone, being used to hide the sunlight. Some of the cushions have been pulled, too. That's why he's in your lap. That, and because he thought you smelled good.

"Can't… decipher…" He props an arm on the back of the sofa, his fingers in his hair. "Decipher is a stupid word. Why did I say that?" He rolls his eyes. It sounds like he's talking to you, but the question is rhetoric. It doesn't sound like he's talking to himself. You don't know who he's talking to.

"I don't smell anything," you say.

"Well, of course _you_ don't smell anything." He reaches out, touches your earlobe, and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. Dark circles sweep beneath his eyes, growing blacker with each blink. They become longer over time.

When he flings the last dart into a man's testicles, he sways on the spot. Tired, he bends to your will and welcomes the couch. He sits beside you and moves onto your lap around the same time the party dwindles. The music stops, the drinks dry up, and the floor turns into a comfortable bed. He's in your lap, groggy, talking to someone that isn't himself nor you. The sun peeks through the blinds.

Because you also are running on little sleep, you say things you shouldn't say, ask things you shouldn't ask. "Who was that guy? You were… with him before…"

He stares at you, blank, not a thought passing through his mind. Suddenly, he remembers. "Oh, you mean the one touching my penis. Yeah, I don't…" He drifts off, looking off to the side, at the floor, at the doorway, even at the ceiling. "That's bad, isn't it? I don't fucking know who he was."

He isn't talking to you. You touch his thigh. It's there, so you touch it. It's warm. Absently, you squeeze. The action is not so absent to him. Interactions between you and him have been timid—new acquaintances, scared to do something in fear of turning off the other. Tonight and this morning, you discover he is dominant when it comes to romance. Tonight and this morning, you discover he is submissive when it comes to sex.

First thing you notice is the change in his posture. He shrinks, almost, but doesn't back away from you. Yet, he doesn't show any indication he wants you to go further. Your hand stays.

Second thing you notice is his eyes. They're softer now, made of cracked open hazelnuts—bleeding hazelnuts. You touch his thigh, and those hazel eyes look at you like you've produced a kitten out of thin air. Though, that might not be the right analogy. You read the look as arousal, and it would be weird if he was aroused by kittens.

Third thing you notice is the pimple on his temple. It's red, just sprouted. It's what you're gazing at as he leans in to kiss you. His hand comes to your neck. His palm is sweaty. It doesn't matter. He's a good kisser.

You and he are the only ones still awake in the room. The rest are asleep, snoring, pillows and couch cushions to their faces, and here you are, kissing, biting, sucking. Despite how sleepy you both are, this is more important. Adrenaline is fresh in your veins. He breaks from your lips, goes to your neck. You expect a bite, but instead he kisses. It's gentle, unpredictable. Your hand is on his thigh. "More?" you ask, and he nods, and you go to kiss him again, but he shakes his head and looks at you, and you understand.

Since he is tired, he bends to your will. This isn't the first time. It might not be the last. He stretches over the arm of the couch. Slowly, you pull down his pants and make him all nice and wet, licking, kissing. You even bite him in a few places. He has a great ass.

It doesn't take long until his climax hits the one couch cushion left. He has to awkwardly maneuver from the piece of furniture to zip up his jeans. You help him. He's ready to fall over. "Look at that: didn't even have to touch my penis."

"I'll touch it later."

You help him upstairs. He's ready to fall over. An empty bedroom is at the end of the hall. The bed is as comfy as any. He makes a comment about the mattress. You don't hear. You curl up behind him and listen to him breathe.

* * *

Tomorrow is today. You are playing darts with him again. He looks terrible, like he hasn't slept. He slept with you, snored in your ear. Sometime during the night, you woke, pulled up a blanket, and found him clinging to you and snoring in your ear, fast asleep, peaceful, a child. His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles galore, and tonight, he is playing darts with knives.

The dartboard for this evening is a blank wall he was leaning against when you catch his eye. You're freshly showered, clean, ready to take him over the sofa for a second night in the row; and he's dirty and tired and ready to be taken over the sofa for a second night in the row.

Right now, he's juggling the knives, tossing one at the wall every few seconds. He's formed a triangle. It looks pretty cool.

"Looks pretty cool," you say.

He drops a knife and cuts his palm. Into the bathroom you take him, picking through a medicine cabinet you are unfamiliar with until you find bandages and antibacterial cream. You clean him up. His palm has Hello Kitty on it. He won't stop staring at you.

"You're so nice," he says. "Don't leave me."

You don't know what that means, so you kiss him. The bathroom only has a single light bulb that works above the sink. It flickers, though that doesn't stop lips nor tongues. He grabs your hips, winces, and grabs your hip. He keeps his injured hand raised on your shoulder, out of harm's way. He keeps it raised, like he's in a midway prayer, as you take him against the sink. It isn't the sofa, but it's still good. It's still good. He comes without a touch to his cock again. It's still good.

It's still good.

* * *

"What are we doing?" he asks, after you bring him to another orgasm. Same night, different location—the backyard. The porch railing behind him feels weak, like any sort of pressure would break it. He would tumble and fall with his pants around his thighs. It would be awful. All evening, he's put a tremendous amount of pressure on the porch railing. He hasn't tumbled, hasn't fallen. Moonlight from overhead makes him look like a Goddamn angel.

You thumb the slit through his eyebrow. "Well, my fingers are up your ass." For good measure, you wiggle them.

He presses his lips together. "Thank you."

You kiss him, and he kisses you, and within minutes, he's doing more than kissing you.

* * *

Inside, someone claps a hand on your back. They heard you two outside. "He made you wail like a bitch, didn't he?"

You accompany them in the bathroom—you washing your hands and they coddling a bloody nose. He's standing in the doorway, knuckles red, smiling. He's so fucking gorgeous.

* * *

The parties you go to are always at the same house, always thrown by the same person. You don't really know the guy, but he does. "Weasel," he says, then makes sounds that are supposed to resemble a weasel. He's in bed with you, so you shove a pillow to his face. He laughs, and you laugh.

While you're recovering, he stretches out, lying on his stomach and watching you. "Tell me a secret," he says, holding out his hand, the one with a scab on the palm, the one he uses to thread through your hair while you suck him off.

Settling on your stomach, as well, you touch your palm to his. "Like what?"

"I don't know your name."

You tell him your name.

He smiles. "A great fucking name to shout during coitus."

"Don't say that."

" _Coitus_." He squeezes your fingers.

You let that slide. "What the fuck, okay—my name's not a secret."

"It is when I didn't know it."

A cricket could chirp—could chirp as loud as a whistle from a train, and everybody would hear. Everybody would cover their ears with palms that are not scathed. They might even sing to drown out the noise. _La-la-la._

The house is quiet. It's four in the morning. You and he are in a bedroom that doesn't belong to you, a bedroom you've claimed as your own, a bedroom you've fucked him in too many times when the only words he would exclaim are profanity and any and all gods' names.

"You're going to leave, aren't you?" he asks. It's more of a statement, but it comes out like a question. He wants an answer. He wants to be proven wrong.

Gently, you squeeze his fingers back. "Maybe."

* * *

He sleeps next to you. In the morning—the late morning—he rolls on top of you, yawning. "Nothing is set in stone."

It's early, a bit, and you end up poking his empty stomach and grumbling, "Maybe."

He laughs. It's loud. If there are still occupants in the house, they will wake up, and they will be angry. But he's laughing, because he's happy. He's happy. He's happy.

* * *

You tell him goodbye and lean in for a kiss. He goes in for a hug, and doesn't let go for three minutes and sixteen seconds. Believe him, he counted.

"We've had longer, but I felt like I was going to sneeze. Sneezing on you would be rude with a capital _R_."

* * *

At home, you begin to wonder what exactly you're doing with him. You don't have an answer, and you don't know how you feel about that.

* * *

The next time you see him, it is a weekday, and he is standing in the front yard. You're walking out to get the mail, still in your pajamas, and he's standing there, as if he's been waiting on you.

You scratch the back of your head and yawn. "Hi. Have you been stalking me?"

"Yes." You meant it as a joke. His answer is serious.

"Oh."

"Yes."

You're standing in your pajamas, on your way to get the mail. He's in your front yard, in a sweatshirt and jeans, expecting something, expecting nothing. He has been stalking you. Logic points to you discarding him, dumping him on the curb. You don't. You can't. Explanations fail you. "Come in," you say, and lead him inside. He takes the invitation with a smile and makes a comment to a person that is neither you nor himself. This is a normal occurrence you have grown used to.

When you have remembered you neglected to get the mail, his tongue is down your throat and your hands are busy feeling the skin beneath his shirt. You are in the bedroom, your bedroom, and he sheds your clothing and takes you for the first time. It's hot, clumsy, but he knows what he's doing. He never stops kissing you.

* * *

You get the mail after getting penetrated. You're in your pajamas again, your shirt on backwards and not wearing underwear. Inside, he is naked, going through your kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator. He grabs the milk and drinks straight from the carton.

"You're a monster," you hiss.

He snorts, milk shooting out his nostrils.

* * *

He fucks you again. And again. And you fuck him—again and again.

Muscles should be sore, mouths dry, fingers weak from tight grips and pushing and pulling and sticking and twirling and thrusting and penetrating. This is the second time you've thought about the word "penetrate" in less than twelve hours. He's laughing beside you. He whispers words such as this in your ear, and they do not go away. Earworms, he says, and then proceeds to sing an obnoxious song that does not go away either.

He's naked. He hasn't worn clothing once it shed the first time. "It's okay, look at my body." He has a great body.

That evening, he goes through your freezer. Still naked, still sporting scratches along his back and bruises on his hips, he mumbles, "Chimichangas."

Unlike him, you have wrapped yourself back in clothing. You are warm. "Chimichangas?" You watch him, thankful—so fucking thankful—for your bladder screaming for release at the exact moment he is pointing a gun at a scumbag's temple.

"Yes."

"Do you want some?"

"No, I just love saying it." He proceeds to chant it while you order a pizza.

* * *

For someone who constantly worries about you leaving him, he is quick to leave you as soon as the sun comes over the horizon.

However, a note is on the nightstand. Well, not technically a note—a crude drawing of phallic objects, mostly bananas, and him stuffing them in his mouth. It goes on forever. _Endless._ You tape it to your fridge.

* * *

And you move on.

* * *

And you have lied to yourself.

It's next weekend, and he knocks on your front door, and you take him in, and you take him, and he takes you, and as you are lying in bed next to him, as he is discussing the absurdities of the latest movie he watched, you decide you can't leave him.

"Never have I ever loved pubes before I met you."

"What?"

"Sorry… you weren't supposed to hear that."

* * *

He kisses boys like it's going out of style. He kisses girls with air and predictability. And he kisses everybody else on and not on the gender binary as if he might die tomorrow.

And he kisses you.


End file.
